


Paying Tribute

by coffeeincluded



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: During Timeskip (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 16:53:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24100123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeincluded/pseuds/coffeeincluded
Summary: What is Bernadetta doing with bolts of white cloth, taken from military stores? Hubert needs to find out.
Relationships: Bernadetta von Varley/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 5
Kudos: 71
Collections: Hubernie Week





	Paying Tribute

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EvilMuffins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvilMuffins/gifts).



> This fic is pulling double-duty!
> 
> First off, this fic is for EvilMuffins, who donated to the Manomet charity. Please consider making such donations as well if you enjoy this fic or others that I've written. This was her prompt:
>
>> I had in mind Hubert/Bernadetta, where Bernie has been making more cloth flowers than usual lately. Hubert finds out that she's actually been making them to memorialize each person she's shot in battle. Hubert himself only sees enemies who have fallen as stepping stones toward their goals, so he isn't sure how to process this.
> 
> And also it's Hubernie week, so this can fill the Stitches and Fight prompts too.
> 
> Anyway, please read and enjoy!

Most people didn’t realize this, but the Minister of Military Affairs was also in charge of the logistical and tactical aspects of warfare. An army was useless without food, or grain, or weaponry, and any military commander needed to be able to calculate supplies and manage their distribution. This meant that every Bergliez received some basic training in the subjects. Even Caspar, who thought with his fists, was significantly better at sums than Hubert initially assumed. Granted, he was talking about Caspar so the bar was rather low, but still. The Minister of Military Affairs oversaw the bureaucracy behind the bloodshed. 

Except in this case. Hubert was the Minister of the Imperial Household, Her Majesty’s left-hand man, her trusted spy and adviser, her closest friend, a master of dark magic, and the main point of contact with Those Who Slithered In The Dark. And for now, at least until Byleth returned and even afterwards to some extent, he was in charge of all the military finances. 

It wasn’t a question of trust—at least, not anymore. He and Lady Edelgard spent an entire year playing as students, trying and failing to keep their classmates at arms length, and yet slowly growing attached anyway. Hubert thought he was doing an...acceptable job, compartmentalizing for himself and keeping Lady Edelgard focused on her goals instead of pining after their Professor (who, as he repeatedly pointed out, was handpicked by Rhea herself!) and pretending that he was not growing too attached to their classmates. It would be easier, to pretend that he did not admire Petra’s diligence, or glean satisfaction from arguments with Ferdinand, or something warm yet not quite identifiable at watching Bernadetta’s tentative steps outside of the walls she built up between her and the world. 

And then Byleth, and their classmates, chose Edelgard at the Holy Tomb. That was something Hubert had never prepared for, because preparing for it would have meant hoping for something that would have never happened.

But it did. 

Byleth was missing, but the Strike Force was still here, loyal allies and...even friends, Hubert could admit to himself now. Dorothea, who made the air sing with her magic. Linhardt, who swallowed down his disgust of blood to keep them all alive. Bernadetta, who blossomed into a violet blur on the battlefield, swift and deadly with her bow. She even ventured outside her room more often now. 

They were here, despite everything.

All this was to say that it wasn’t so much a matter of not trusting his comrades so much as...Hubert didn’t want anybody else potentially dealing with finances, or Those Who Slithered In The Dark. 

So where could this discrepancy come from?

It was a fairly inconsequential one, compared to the potential loss of weaponry or food, but pure white cloth was somewhat expensive. And several dozen bolts of white cloth were missing. 

Hubert check the tallies a third time, then slammed the ledger closed. He needed answers. Who was skimming off bolts of cloth, a few a month? And why? 

* * *

The soldier had blue eyes, at least before Bernadetta put an arrow through them. 

She tied off the last stitch and let the fifth white poppy float to the ground. 

The next soldier was a mage, if Bernadetta remembered correctly. The robes suggested that. She could match him in range, and even though Dorothea and Hubert were more resilient against magical attacks she wasn’t half-bad, and more importantly could slip in and out of enemy lines better than they could. It was all too easy to snipe him mid-incantation and retreat to the safety of the trees. 

The white poppy took shape in her hands, white cloth expertly cut and sewn together. A few more stitches and it, too, was complete. 

Bernadetta let it fall to the floor and looked back to the basket of flower patterns, waiting to be shaped into poppies. Poppies for young men, one for every person she had killed in the last battle.

The basket was still mostly full.

It was easy work for Bernadetta to lose herself in. Simple and repetitive, something she knew how to do well. Making something instead of destroying it. 

The summer sun was low in the sky by the time Bernadetta was done, and was flirting with the western horizon by the time she worked up the courage to leave her room and make her way to the makeshift glade.

That had been a lucky find, discovered entirely by accident after the battle at Garreg Mach...what was it, a year and a half ago now? Some wall had been completely busted open, revealing a long-since-rotted-away room behind it. 

It could have been an abandoned classroom, or a forgotten storage shed, or anything really. But now it was nothing but rotten timbers and crumbling stone, a few shattered beams jutting over the mossy stone floor. A tree grew up from the wall, its broad leaves filtering the dying light and letting it dapple the mossy ground. Old fallen leaves moldered in the corners where they had been blown over the years. The walls were crumbled, but enough of them remained to protect the remnants of the room from the worst of the wind.

What used to be a room was quiet and forgotten. Bernie would have  _ loved _ finding a place like this back in her academy days. It was peaceful here, with little mossy shaded areas to sit on and do her needlework, or read a book, or work on some sketches. Nobody would have ever found her, except if she wanted them too. 

Bernadetta set the newest group of sewn poppies down next to the rows upon rows of other tiny white flowers, then stepped back to observe her work. 

Flames, there were so  _ many. _ Dozens, maybe even hundreds, of cloth poppies, one for every person she killed in this war. The broken walls reduced the wind to a breeze, but it still tossed those flowers around and shifted them into little piles where they could no longer be seen or counted row by row. Or at all, unless Bernadetta took hours picking them out and lining them back up one by one by one. 

A gentle knock startled Bernadetta out of her reverie, but only briefly. 

“Yah! Wait...Dorothea?” Of course it would be Dorothea. She was the only one who knew about this place. Right? Nobody else found out about this place, did they? 

The smile still shone on Dorothea’s face, but the mischievous twinkle in her eyes had dimmed months ago. “I’m still impressed that you sew a flower for every single one. I...I lost count a few months ago.”

Bernie made a little sympathetic noise, not really sure what to actually say. Both she and Dorothea had suffered horribly under the current system; of course they would side with Edelgard. She was the only one out there who saw it was terrible  _ and _ was strong enough to do anything about it. But there was a difference between the abstract understanding that they were in a war and people died in war, and actually shooting an arrow through someone and seeing their dying gurgles. 

In a way it was sort of a mercy that Bernie spent so much time holed up in her room. Unlike Dorothea, she had basically no chance of recognizing the people she was about to kill. 

She didn’t want to think about that day when she inevitably lost count. 

“...Thanks for letting me use this space, Bernadetta.”

“You’re welcome.” Dorothea was her friend now, and friends shared spaces like this, right? Besides, she also needed to…

She…

They…

The war was hurting Dorothea too. They were both killers, now. 

“How do Hubert and Edelgard do it?” They were the ones who started this war, they gave the orders, and they fought on the front lines themselves. How did they manage to keep going and keep killing and not break? Did they cry in private? Bernadetta wished Byleth was still around; she was always so good at listening to people and helping them through their troubles. She shuddered to think what would have happened if Professor Byleth had decided to lead the Lions or Deer. 

Dorothea was quiet for a while, staring at the cloth poppies. Even though it was summer, they looked like snow. “I think it’s because they figure the alternative is worse. A little pain now to spare a lot of pain later. And they can move through it.”

Bernie knew that, but again there was a difference between knowing it and experiencing it. She knew her panic attacks were illogical, but good luck logicing her way out of the middle of one! She’d gotten better at stopping them when she could feel them rising up like the swell of a wave, but if she didn’t stop them in time they would still overwhelm her. Maybe Dorothea didn’t have an answer for that either. 

“...Whenever I disappointed my father he’d burn my artwork, or my plants. He always seemed to find some reason to be disappointed in me.”

“...The church-sponsored soup kitchen my mother and I went to would hand out sermons with their food. Meanwhile, one of the top sponsors of the program was a noble who would only let impoverished people live and work in his manor if they slept with him. The church knew this, and didn’t do anything about it.”

A long pause, and then, 

“Ferdinand is talking with Hubert about repurposing his spy network after the war for effective and rapid communication throughout the empire.”

“Petra should be back from Brigid next month with reinforcements in exchange for independence.”

Another long silence, this one gently swept away with one of Dorothea’s arias. This one was slow and sad, a dirge more than anything else. A lament for the dead, but also a hope for the future. Bernadetta didn’t know whether it was from one of Dorothea’s operas or one she made up herself, but either way it was melancholy and beautiful. 

It would all be worth it. It had to be. 

* * *

Bernadetta had no idea where the Faerghus troops had gotten blastpowder from. Hubert seemed to have some suspicions—she could tell from the way he ran his fingers over the flower she sewed for him that he was thinking about something beyond battle tactics—but he was keeping it close to himself and Edelgard. In either case, that amount of blastpowder was incredibly dangerous. It would take the Bridge of Myrddin out of commission for weeks if the Alliance bought it, could easily damage the gates of Arianrhod. The possibilities were endless, and so the blastpowder had to go.

One of Hubert’s spies reported that the blastpowder was being transported under armed guard at the end of the week. The guards consisted of three battalions: one battalion of pegasus knights, one battalion of infantry, and one battalion of resonant ice mages. 

“So you need me to Meteor the blastpowder,” Dorothea said next to Bernadetta. It wasn’t a question. “I can only cast that spell once, you know.” She pointed to the two groups of red soldiers. “And it looks like they’re split up into two convoys, probably to minimize the chances of something like what we’re planning from happening.” 

Hubert nodded. “Which is precisely why we need you, Bernadetta.”

Wait, what? That had to be some mistake. Sure, she was a good archer, and she had helped out a lot, and they needed her, she wasn’t useless Bernie anymore, but...that was a lot of people. “Why me?”

Hubert didn’t even look up. “Who else would it be? You have more range with your bow than anyone except Dorothea’s Meteor spell, and she can only cast it once. And you are faster than Dorothea, so you will be more able to make a retreat.” Now he looked up, one green eye into her two gray ones. “I trust you, Bernadetta. You are the only member of the Black Eagle Strike Force whom I know can complete this task, who I won’t have to worry about.”

Bernadetta could have argued more about how Petra was faster and better at stalking through the trees (but she was still in Brigid, and didn’t have Bernadetta’s range), how Hubert was also a spellcaster (but he wasn’t as fast as her, and again didn’t have Bernadetta’s range), how…

They needed her. Hubert trusted her. Hubert  _ believed _ in her. 

The night was quiet, with barely a breeze to disturb the air. There were no towns nearby; save for the campfires below and the stars above this was the kind of dark that would swallow up everything. It was the kind of darkness where wolves lurked, ready to pray on foolish little girls playing at war, gobble them up and spit out their bones—

Bernie took a deep breath and forced her heart to settle. She could do this. She had to do this. Okay Bernie, you’ve got this. 

Another light flickered and came to life in the trees, so small that one had to look to find it. The flaming arrow was heavier than she thought, and Bernadetta had to alter her aim to not miss. 

Thankfully, it was a large target.

There was a pause, a moment of stillness as that flaming arrow hurtled towards the barrels upon barrels of blastpowder, too fast for any of the guards to do anything about it. And then they exploded. 

The barrels technically exploded one by one, but it was so fast that they all might as well have blown up at once. The light bloomed, rising into a billowing cloud, with an ominous glow beneath. Ash and flame scattered from the eruption, and even by her vantage point Bernadetta could hear the screams of the soldiers below.

Seconds later, a larger ball of flame set the second caravan alight. The explosion rattled Bernadetta’s teeth, even up here. It was her cue to exit, and yet she found herself rooted to the spot, staring at the valley below where blastpowder burned and men died.

_ I did this. _

* * *

“Bernadetta? You do not truly think that you can hide from me, do you?”

Hubert called this out to the empty hallways, because she was hiding—and not in her room, either. Where was she off to this time? The moment he went to congratulate her on an impeccably performed mission, she ran off like she had in their old school days, and was nowhere to be seen since. Hubert was perfectly content to just leave her to it for a day or two, but when three days passed and she had still not emerged, well that just would not do. Bernadetta had war meetings to attend after all. 

Bernadetta had made admirable strides over the course of the months and years he had known her. She would always be introverted and shy, but just the fact that she was leaving her room and fighting alongside them...well. Hubert always admired strength in the face of adversity. And Bernadetta had more than enough of that, even if it was not at all obvious at first glance. He could not have been more wrong when he had initially written her off as a lost cause, all those years ago. Ah, was his younger self myopic, as well as blind as to how pretty Bernadetta had become with her straightened hair, lovely violet dress, and hand-embroidered shrug.

It took most of the day to search the monastery, and all the little spaces revealed in their attack that were perfectly shaped for Bernadetta to hide in. He would have missed the crumbling retaining wall if not for her telltale soft wail. Slowly, like a hunter stalking their quarry, Hubert approached. 

Hubert would have struggled to think of a place that would better fit Bernadetta’s aesthetic. The remains of the old classroom were held up by ivy, moss, and the roots of an old gnarled tree more than anything else. It looked rather lonely, but in a peaceful sort of way. The calm, however, was broken by a frantic Bernadetta sitting in the middle of the room, surrounded by white cloth poppies. 

Well, that at least answered where the bolts of white cloth had gone off to. 

“I’m sorry!” Bernadetta cried to the empty air. Perhaps to the cloth poppies? No, even for her that was ridiculous. Still she was rather frantic about something, and his presence at this time would only make things worse. Hubert slipped the cloth flower pin from his pocket to his left lapel, just above his heart. That was where it always rested whenever he spoke to her, for reasons he could not say out loud quite yet. 

And...he waited, to hear just what Bernadetta was apologizing for. He couldn’t imagine what she was sorry about this time. Bernadetta had done no harm. The trap would have been a complete failure without her, and he had made sure to praise and compliment Bernadetta when she returned with Dorothea on her stealth mission, just before she vanished from his sight. Bernadetta tended to react quite well to founded praise and constructive criticism, yet in retrospect she had barely made it through the mission debriefing.

“How many people were in the battalions?” Bernadetta cried out, “Aagh, Bernie doesn’t know! I’m so sorry, I can’t keep count! I’m going to have to guess! I’m so sorry!”

What in the world? Was Bernadetta...apologizing to the people she killed? Did she make all these flowers for them?

There were too many to count, falling around her like so much snow, but there must have been hundreds. Hubert mentally filed through all of their battles, Bernadatta’s contribution to each of them and  _ flames _ there must have been hundreds. She made a flower for each of the several hundred or so soldiers that she killed?

Oh, Bernadetta. Why would she do that to herself? It made absolutely no sense. Their enemies were just that—enemies. Stepping stones on the way to the future that Lady Edelgard and he and the rest of their comrades were forging in blood and steel, for the Church had ensured that there would be no other way. Why would Bernadetta, who was so gentle for someone fighting in this war, memorialize each of her kills? It clearly was not in the sense of a sadistic triumph the way some people like the Death Knight did, but only seemed to cause her more pain. Why would Bernadetta subject herself to that?

There was a clatter of a needle against stone, and a tiny squeak. Bernadetta had spotted him, and from the way she was rooted to the ground in absolute terror, Hubert would need to figure this out pretty quickly.

* * *

Oh no. Oh no no  _ no. _ He’d seen her. Hubert had found her and found out that she’d been using the cloth and wasting time and he was going to be  _ so mad _ and he’d probably execute her on the spot for stealing military supplies she was only twenty! She was two young to die!

“I’m sorry!” she wailed, now to Hubert as much as the poppies. “I’ll pay you back for the cloth I’ll work extra kitchen duty I’ve already been making my own arrows so you’ve been saving in funds there I’ll find some other way to make a memorial it doesn’t matter anymore I lost count please don’t kill meeeeeee!”

“Bernadetta.”

“I’m so sorry Hubert you probably think I’m pathetic don’t you crying over our enemies like that—”

“Bernadetta! Breathe with me.”

Breathe! Right. Right, she could do that right? Ferdinand had taught her. In-two-three-four, out-two-three-four. It helped, a little. At least enough that she could see Hubert’s flower, and that calmed her down a little more. Hubert knelt beside her, and waited for her to come back to herself.

But oh, she was going to be in so much trouble, wasn’t she? “Hubert? You’re not gonna execute me for using the cloth, are you?”

“Of course not,” Hubert said, and she made herself believe it. “Bernadetta, did you really make these flowers in tribute to the soldiers you killed? A handmade poppy for each one?”

“I...yes,” she squeaked.

Hubert scooped up some of the cloth poppies, let them fall between his gloved fingers like so much snow. They stood out stark against his blacks and grays, every one of them a unique life gone and represented by a fake flower identical to all the others. Bernie closed her eyes. What had she been thinking, making these flowers? Such a stupid, foolish thing, an almost insulting representation of the cost of life. How could she possibly think this was a fitting tribute? And now she didn’t even know how many flowers to make anymore. 

Hubert’s hand rose towards her shoulder, perhaps intended as a steadying presence. She hadn’t even realized she was shaking. But then Hubert’s hand dropped, as if he suddenly remembered that he was Hubert von Vestra and Hubert von Vestra did not  _ touch _ other people. He didn’t even look directly at her, but gave more of a side glance as he spoke in a slow, measured voice, played one of the poppies between his fingers. “I’m a terribly cold person, Bernadetta. I...have not paid much thought to our enemies beyond their status as obstacles, stepping stones on the way to Her Majesty’s goals and our victories. If I were to take the time to memorialize every one of my victims, I would likely find myself paralyzed. And yet here you are, taking that time. Lady Edelgard said you seemed like a gentle soul when we first met, and you most certainly are. Yet you are still here, fighting alongside us in war even as you allow yourself to count and feel every kill, knowing there will be more. It must be an incredible emotional burden; one that you’ve chosen to bear, no less.”

Well yeah! Sure they were their enemies, but they were also people. They were people, and now they were dead, because of her and this war. Even though this would make things better, in the end, there was a cost right now. Bernie needed to remember that. The flowers were a pathetic substitute, to be sure, but that was all she could think of because  _ she  _ was too pathetic to think of anything else! Besides, the alternative would be forgetting about them, all the lives that she ended with her own hands at the point of a lance or arrow. And that was even worse. 

Still, why would Hubert bring them up? Was he trying to rub it in her face? Make her feel bad? Punish her for using up materials? Oh she shouldn’t have done that Hubert was going to execute her for using up military supplies! Agh, no, stop it Bernie, think things through and stop panicking for once! Hubert was wearing the flower she made for him, and he called her a gentle soul, so he meant to calm her down, right? But it still sounded like he was rubbing in what she did. Or was that just her blowing things out of proportion again?

Agh, no. Focus, Bernie. She forced herself to take a deep, if shaky, breath. “It...it is, Hubert. But I, I have to do it. I can’t forget that I’m killing people, even if it’s them or me, and I chose this with you.”

“You can leave, if you so wish.”

Wait, what? Had she heard that right?”

“Bernadetta, if you wish to leave, you may. You will be discharged with full military honors and can do whatever you wish, whether it be to stay home, travel, or assist us in a non-military fashion.”

Bernadetta heard what Hubert was saying, but it only partially registered as the rest of her mind blanked out. Hubert wanted her to leave? 

“Is this, Hubert, are you saying you don’t need me anymore?” But he said he needed her before! Was he lying then? Or now? Or did he find an archer just as good as her and now he didn’t need her anymore, because this other hypothetical archer wouldn’t mourn the people they killed and so they’d be easier to deal with? Was this some sort of trap? But Hubert wouldn’t do those kinds of verbal traps with her...right? He only ever did that once, and that was years ago!

“Bernadetta.” That was his Commander Voice, the one that wartime had trained her to snap to attention for. Her focus held, he continued--more gently this time (well, as gently as Hubert could muster). “You are a vital member of this army, and there is nobody who could ever replace you. Not on the battlefield, and certainly not off it. I know you may not realize it many days, but you have a positive effect on morale for all of us. However,” and he held up a hand before she could go into a spiral of  _ are you trying to guilt me into staying? _ , “I do not wish for you to remain if doing so will only cause you more mental anguish, and neither would Lady Edelgard. Bernadetta, if you need time away from the battlefield you need only say the word. I am the Minister of the Imperial Household and the acting tactician for the Black Eagle Strike Force until Byleth returns, and I will make it work.”

It was tempting. It was so tempting, to be away from the fighting, even for just a little while. To let the blood on her hands dry, wash them off and see the pink scarred skin underneath once more. But the war would keep grinding on without her. Her friends would still fight, and people would still die, even if she were not there. And if she were not there, then who would Hubert send in her stead? Nobody could ride a horse through enemy lines, fire a single shot at incredible range, then retreat back to safety like her. That was something only Bernadetta could do, and it filled her with pride when she realized that, all the way deep in her bones. Still filled her with pride to think about it, a powerful thing that the anxiety in her head had no retort for.

And even if she couldn’t do that, Bernie knew why they were fighting. And that was why she said, “I...Thank you, Hubert, but, I...I’m going to stay. Even though it hurts. Because I’m doing this for all of us. I was down there in the Holy Tomb with you. I know what Rhea said about scaring us into obedience with the whole Lonato thing. That’s what I lived with, my entire life! It was all about scaring me into being a nice, submissive, obedient doll. And look what it did to me.”

“I don’t see a scared, submissive doll,” Hubert teased, so much more gently than the first awful time with the needle when he made her faint from terror. Those days were long gone. “I see a brave, brilliant young woman who’s been beaten down and beaten down and keeps going regardless.”

Oh, that made something simmer and flicker in her, some warmth that she wanted to curl up into. Leaning into Hubert wasn’t enough, but it would do. “Hubert, that’s...thank you. I don’t really know what to say other than thank you, and that’s why I’m staying. Because nobody else should go through that! And you and Edelgard are the only people actually doing something to make sure it doesn’t. Fighting was going to happen no matter who tried to change things, right? People like my dad, the only way to get them to stop hurting others is to  _ make _ them.”

“Unfortunately. Violence is the only language some people know. And for others, they resist peaceful change for so long that violent revolution becomes the only other recourse.” 

“Which is why we’re here. Including me. I’m gonna stay, Hubert, because this war is going to keep going whether or not I’m here and I...I’m part of the Strike Force now. I’m doing this for all of us.”

Bernadetta could see the relief slip through Hubert’s cool facade, just a little softening of his mouth at the edges. She would have missed it even a few months ago. It was this softening that gave her the courage to say, “Hubert, you really aren’t that cold a person.”

“...Bernadetta, do you realize just who you are talking to?”

“Yes, and that’s exactly it! Hubert, you just saw that I was hurting and went out of your way to help. You even offered me a chance to leave if it would help me feel better. You’re wearing the flower I made for you, right now, because it makes me feel better. You didn’t have to put in all this time and effort for me. But you’re doing it because you want to...right?”

Hubert nodded. 

“You care a lot about things. And...and you care about...me.” 

“I suppose I do.”

That was enough for Bernie. She really didn’t know how to respond, and just had to hope that her leaning into Hubert, Hubert’s decision to stay, said enough. 

Bernadetta wasn’t really sure how much time passed in this abandoned classroom, surrounded by poppies and leaning into Hubert’s warmth, but it was enough for her leg to start cramping. It took that long for Hubert to say, “I cannot understand why you are choosing to memorialize our enemies in this way, and I will not try to. But...it is clearly important to you, so if you need to talk then I will listen. And you can use as much cloth as you need.”

* * *

The greenhouse, once reserved for flowers, now grew provisions for war. Root vegetables that would keep for a long time. Plants whose components could be ground up, boiled, or distilled into medicine or poison alike. Only one tiny segment of the greenhouse remained for Bernadetta’s plants, a concession to her love for them.

Next to them, there was now a newly-bare patch of soil, freshly sown and seeded. The gladiolus seeds were expensive and would take some time to bloom. But Hubert would accept nothing less than the best. 

**Author's Note:**

> Whew. And that's a wrap for this short series of fics! Thank you all for reading, everyone, and thank everyone who participated in Hubernie Week! I've never done a fanweek before and this was quite a lot of fun even though I could only do three fics.
> 
> Well, now I'll take a break for a day or two and then it's back to my main story. Thank you all for reading and enjoying!


End file.
